Her cell phone bleeped as they roared across town in Winters' truck.

The number that came on her screen was Mary Margaret's, but the whispering voice at the other end was so low it was hard to hear. "Say that again?" Cíara said, her heart thumping. Then, to Winters "Step on the accelerator – Mary Margaret's in the flat to get her stuff – and someone's breaking in!"

Visions of her pregnant friend suffering the same treatment – or worse – as Margaret Henley if the burglar discovered her made sick with fear. Leaning forward in the seat, her own foot pressing an imaginary accelerator as Winters wove in and out of the gathering evening traffic, she tried to move them forward with sheer force of will. Seeing the tense lines of her body, Winters leaned over and squeezed her clasped hands. The grateful glance she gave him in reply made his heart thump – and the moment's inattention earned him a few pithy words from a taxi driver who was cutting in ahead of him.

Winters parked in the side street leading to the green in the centre of the square of Georgian-style houses. She pulled off her strappy high-heeled sandals and threw them in the back seat of the truck as she prepared to follow Winters silently down the street.

"Where would your bathroom be?" he asked her quietly when they reached the front of her house.

"Winters, this is hardly the time – oh, I see. The bathroom for my gaff would be around the side. I did leave it open – but just a crack." She followed him and, looking up, they saw the small frosted glass window now stood open to its widest point. A drainpipe passed by a convenient foot or so from the window, and they caught the glimmer of a flashlight from the darkness inside.

Swinging around the back of the house, they crept in through the small back room that was used as a laundry for all seven flats in the building, into the main hallway, and up the stairs. Cíara's heart was thumping madly and once more she was glad of Winters' solid presence, this time ahead of her and between her and whatever lay ahead.

She muttered a curse as she fumbled with the keys, and Winters took them from her, holding the jingling keys quiet in his big palm as he inserted the right key into the lock. It opened with a contained click! And they slipped inside.

At the same moment a dark figure came out of Cíara's bedroom, holding a small torch shielded in one hand. The other hand was rifling through the meager contents of Cíara's jewelry box.

"You dirty bollox! Did you really think you could get away with this!" she roared, launching herself forwards. She was caught in strong arms and flung backwards, and only saved from a fist in the face by Winters' intervention as the big man put himself between her and the Diamond Darling. There was a loud thud as the two men crashed to the floor, Winters grunting when the old wound in his leg streaked pain as he hit the floor.

Then Cíara saw Diamond Darling turn the heavy mahogany jewelry box into a weapon, slamming it against Winters' temple.

Flicking on the light, she saw Winters lying dazed on the floor as the slight, black clad figure stood over him preparing to land another blow. Her vision blurred as she saw the thin line of blood on Winters' face, then fury launched her forward at his attacker.

"Take your miserable junk!" The intruder screamed, tossing the contents of the box in Cíara's face as he ran towards the back of the flat. She went down on her knees beside Winters, pulling his head into her arms.

"My God, Winters, are you dead? Please be breathing – I didn't mean all those horrible things I said," she muttered, rocking his prone body. And rejoiced in the unbelievable sense of relief as his eyes opened.

Winters was dead. He knew he was dead, because he was in heaven, his head cushioned on the breast of an angel. An angel who as calling his name, with tears in her eyes. An angel who said she loved him and regretted all the evil things she'd wished on him…an angel who looked just like…!

Reality hit home. Winters sat up with a suddenness that made his head spin.

"You're all right? You gobshite, I thought you were dead!" the angel yelled.

Winters clutched his head. "Please don't shout," he tried to speak softly, but his own voice echoed loudly in his head. Then a dark figure sprinted from the back of the flat, making for the only door after a fruitless search for an exit.

Cíara jumped up. "We've got to go – he's getting away."

Winters swore as reality flooded back into his consciousness. He staggered to his feet, head reeling, and for an awful moment he thought his injured leg would not hold his weight. Cíara was ahead of him, barreling through the open door. The Diamond Darling, the thug who'd thumped her grandmother and stood her up, was not going to get away lightly. But she had to admit, it was comforting to have Winters bounding along behind her. For a moment there, when she'd thought he was dead, nothing else had really mattered. Not even revenge on that lying pond scum Wallace.